[The Good Guy] Ten Years Later

You read the text a second time.

“Hey, hon, coming home early, we really need to talk.”

There was only one reason Maisie would write you a statement like that. Something happened, something she was nervous about. Something that would disrupt your schedule or cause you to drop everything and go to Tokyo or Amsterdam, somewhere far away for weeks or even months. Although, with Maisie, it could also be just needing to reschedule your date night on Thursday. For all the amazing things your wife had accomplished, she was still overly-dramatic when it came to you.

You sigh. You wish she could just text it to you. She always wanted these talks face to face, and while you didn’t mind, by the time it got to you she already knew what you would say. Like the month on you spent on a cruise ship because she was the spokesperson for the company that was running the on-ship casino. The choice was either go on an extended cruise in luxury accommodations and get handed a pile of money, or breach an important contract. Yet she warned you she needed to talk, sat you down and went over it like it was a major family decision.

You checked her location in your phone, she was roughly 3 minutes away, you were right on schedule. She’d walk in the door and you’d have a steak quesadilla and a margarita waiting for her. She’d tell you that you saved her life, she had skipped lunch (like always) and was dying. She’d eat, take a drink, settle down and whatever super-important conversation she needed to have with you would go a lot easier.

You heard the front door open, her keys jingle as she hung them on the rack, and then the words you knew were coming:

“Babe, are you here?” Maisie had become predictable, the good kind of predictable. You knew how to make her happy and she loved that you consistently put in effort to keep her happy.

You step out of the kitchen and smile, the apron connecting to the smell of the steak and soon she’d say. . .

“Is that a quesadilla I smell?”

You nod.

“For me?”

You shrug, move your hands quickly to sign “the mailman”.

“What? You made food for the mailman?” She plays along, pretending to be shocked.

You laugh quietly then get her plate, bringing it to the bar where the two of you ate whenever Claire wasn’t home.

“Oh, thanks, I’m starving, babe, I skipped lunch.” She tosses her coat on the sofa and straddles the mahogany bar stool.

“Mmmm. This is exactly what I needed.” She says, her mouth full of her first bite.

You walk over, kiss her cheek then move around her to set the margarita down next to her before she can see you have it.

“Thanks.” She says. And the first warning bell goes off in your head. Normally she’d give you some line about trying to get her drunk or seduce her. Instead, you got a dry thanks.

You gesture to her.

“My day?”

You nod.

“Babe, I, well, it started out fine. The new ad is doing numbers, they want a follow up, same director.”

She’s stalling, a second warning bell. Fuck. This isn’t rescheduling date night.

“The board wants to go forward on the merger. It’s not the end of the world, it isn’t going to bust, but I still think there’s better ways to move the market.”

She’s almost finished her food, she hasn’t even tried her drink. A third warning bell. She’s rushing eating. Whatever it is, it is serious enough that she won’t be able to eat once she brings it up.

You check the clock, 1:35. You have almost an hour before Claire’s bus drops her off. That should be enough time to cover whatever is coming.

You look back to see her staring at you. She looks away quick, but you caught her expression, she is worried of your reaction. She’s done something without consulting you, or committed to something sketchy, or messed something up and expects you will be unhappy about it.

She swallows the last bite of quesadilla slowly. She ate fast but now she’s delaying the conversation. Then a turn of her chin, Maisie’s “tough it out” move. She looks to her drink and downs it in one go.

“Whew. Okay.”

You know whatever is coming is big, so you take her hands, hold them. Do your best to let her know that you are with her no matter what.

“A man came by the office. A shady looking guy, connected but not as much as he wants you to think he is. He’s confident, he thinks he can’t lose.”

You chuckle to yourself. Ten years ago you gave Maisie the ability to read people so she’d be good at poker, and she is, she’s a two-time world champion. But it’s paid off in other areas too.

You look at her and shrug. It’s Atlantic city, Maisie moved from a hot new Poker champion in Las Vegas to an insider in Atlantic city years ago. You know plenty of mob connected people. You prefer almost all of them to the politicians. They throw better parties and have at least some morals.

“No, babe, not that kind. ****-dealer and pimp kind.”

Fuck, not good, but it wasn’t new. And besides, scummy fish messing around in shark waters didn’t last long.

Maisie takes a deep breath. “He has my cousin.”

The words hang in the air. You know what she means. She’s talking about the curse.

“Which” you sign.

“Amber. Second or third cousin, you don’t know her. I barely know her. She’s not what’s important to this. He’s not ransoming her or anything. Obviously, he tracked her to me. He wants money, a lot of money.”

You wait for the rest.

“He’s threatening to tell someone, someone big. Tell them about the curse. About me.”

You point to yourself, Maisie is claimed.

“They could kill you, babe. That’s the threat.” The way she looks at you as she says it, this is somehow not the part she’s afraid of. “The guy he’s talking about, he's big enough to do it.”

Okay. It’s serious. Very serious. “No cops?” you sign to her, already knowing the answer. If the guy is legit, it wouldn’t matter. Hell, the cops might even do it for him.

She shakes her head. Shit. You have contacts, friends, but the chance that they'd find out about the curse is too great. They treated the two of you with respect because of the money Maisie helped them make. If they could cut you out and take full control of the Maisie they wouldn't hesitate.

You look at Maisie, notice her brow, her ears. She isn't thinking, she's building up her courage. She already has a solution, you can see it. She’s just scared to bring it up.

You grab the notepad behind the counter and a pencil. If it is this serious, you don’t want to rely on your middling grasp of American sign language.

“You have an idea.” You write, then turn it towards her.

She nods

Flip it back, write again. “You don’t like it.”

She shakes her head, the tears start to form. Shit, what has her this freaked out?

She points at you.

“I won’t like it.” You write.

She breaks down, sobbing.

You walk around the bar, grab her, hold her. Kiss the top of her head. Let her know it will be alright.

She pulls herself together. “Babe, I need you to fix it.”

You step back, point at yourself, questioning.

Another deep breath. “I need you to make it so he can’t remember me, or can’t find me, like if he looks at me he forgets about the curse or something.”

You are confused. You can’t do that. You lost the ability to give her orders a decade ago when you lost your voice. You gesture to your throat. Maisie knows this, for fuck’s sake, she knows damn well you can’t talk.

Her hand shakes as she reaches out, taking the notepad and moving it to you. She’s looking down, avoiding your eyes.

You tap her arm, she looks up, you shrug quickly, tap the paper. What the hell is she trying to tell you?

“Write the command, babe.” Her face is white as she says it.

“What?” you sign.

“Written commands work, same format as spoken.”

Her **** makes sense now. Your neck feels hot, your ears are burning, you can feel the tears starting at the corner of your eyes. Ten Fucking Years. You turn and walk away. You can’t look at her. You need to be away from her right now. Dammit, you aren’t going to hit your wife. It doesn’t matter how angry you are. You walk to the bedroom, punch the closet door, it’s the cheapest thing to replace. It hurts, and it sounds nice and loud. You hit it again. And again. The pain finally breaks through your anger and you are able to settle enough to not do something really stupid.

“Babe, I’m sorry.” Maisie says from the doorway.

You don’t look at her, you gesture for her to move and she does. You walk back out to the bar. Sit down, grab the pencil and the pad. The sharp pain from your right hand helps you keep your thinking clear. You take a deep breath, let it out. You still have a problem to solve.

You write the words down quickly, then turn and hand it to Maisie. She looks you in the eye for a second, nervous for what she will find written there. She sighs and reads the pad.

“Maisie, you have the power to let me talk again.”